8:10 AM, 22nd of December, 1728.

  Claudia scoffed, a look of slight annoyance on her face, her eyes narrowing. “Quit it with your terrible jokes, Charles. No, the book is not our God; it’s simply something he left behind after his passing. We call it the Book of Truth.”

  Still confused, Alexander questioned, “And how exactly does something get left behind only after his passing?”

  She sighed, “I forget how clueless you are. It was his Remnant. When someone who is past the base level of their Authority dies, they leave behind a Remnant. This book here was his.”

  Alexander had far too many questions about what he had just heard, but wasn’t sure which to ask, “And sorry, but why would a book left behind by the God of Truth ever lie? Isn’t that a bit contradictory?”

  “It’s his way of testing us. Without it, we would be like pigs waiting for their next meal. How could we be followers of truth, seekers of knowledge, if everything we wanted to know was spoon-fed to us? Now, are you going to ask your question or not? I’m a busy woman.”

  Alexander looked down at the book sitting in front of him, this time feeling far more intimidated by its presence. Was this really what remained of a dead god? Was it alright for him to be demanding answers from it? After only a moment of thinking, he knew what it was he wanted to ask. Far too much had happened recently, but only one thing was stuck in his mind, one thing that made little to no sense to him.

  He placed his hand upon the book and began speaking his question aloud, though he kept his volume low, the words coming out in an almost inaudible whisper.

  “Why did Jensen kill Aisha?”

  He moved his fingers against the fore edge of the book and attempted to open it.

  Only it didn’t open. The book simply lifted off the pedestal with the slight pressure he gave it, as if each page were glued together, forming one solid block.

  Claudia sighed. “Ah, it rejects him. Disappointing. Alright then, lead him out.” She waved her hand.

  He stood, placing his hands on the pedestal in front of him, “Wait, what do you mean rejects me? Let me try again.”

  The guards to his side removed their hands from their swords and attempted to grab him by each shoulder. Of course, he had seen them move before it really happened. He grabbed the book and ducked under the pedestal, the guards yelling behind him to stop.

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  But he wasn’t planning to run away with it, no. Instead, he set the book on the floor, attempting to open it after each question he spoke, the volume of his voice increasing with each repeated question.

  “Why did he kill her?”

  It didn’t budge.

  “Why did he do it?”

  Nothing.

  “Why?”

  The guards now had him by the shoulders. Far too lost in the fervor of his own mind, he began kicking at the book, trying one last time to have it open as he screamed the question over and over. Tears fell from his eyes, and he felt the heat of them on his cheeks. Orders were being shouted at him, commands to stop fighting, to calm down, but he heard none of them.

  He screamed.

  He kicked.

  He tried to do anything he could to get back to the book, to have it answer his only question.

  Why did it reject him?

  Before he knew it, he was outside the building that was previously his prison, thrown out onto his hands and knees, and yet all he wanted to do was get back inside. He had to get back inside. He turned around and watched as the marble door shut in his face, seemingly forming a solid wall before him.

  He sat there for a moment, his body low down to the floor, his breath coming out heavy, and his knees digging into the rough road below him, before standing, dusting off his pants. He needed to compose himself. A voice rang out before him, though he heard them before they spoke, and turned to meet their eye.

  “You alright? Did you trip or something?”

  It was a man who spoke, wearing a large leather apron, his face covered in what appeared to be soot or grease. His stature was large, and his muscles were bulky, testifying to the obvious hard labor he must do in his daily life.

  “I’m fine, just had to get my bearings for a moment.”

  “Well, if you need help getting around, I can bring you to where you need to go. I can't imagine it's easy being blind.”

  Alexander thought for a moment, bringing his hand up to his chin where a small amount of stubble lay, deciding not to correct the man's assumption.

  “Actually, yeah, I could use some help. Where can I find somewhere to sleep around here?”

  The man’s worried expression shifted into a large, almost unrealistic smile. “Excellent question! My wife actually runs an inn just down the street - if you don’t mind, I can bring you there - we would never turn down business.”

  Alexander turned towards the end of the street and replied, “Alright, lead the way then.”

  The man placed his hand down on Alexander’s shoulder and led him, guiding him throughout the street, though he didn't know it unnecessary.

  Walking down the street, the man looked over at Alexander and questioned, “How’d you get here anyway? You don’t seem familiar with the city. It can’t have been easy travelling while blind.”

  Alexander let out a small chuckle, “I was actually born under the dome. They thought I was a thrall of the Holder of Order, so they took me here and questioned me.”

  He let out a small gasp in surprise. “I think that makes you the third one since that cursed meteor shower, though you’re the first of them to walk back out of the court.”

  He needed to change the subject. “I don’t think I caught your name, by the way, what was it?”

  “It’s Leonard, and you?”

  They had reached the inn, which stood before them; it was, of course, nearly entirely made of marble, save for the windows and doors. Above the door was a hanging sign made of wood, text simply reading ‘Inn’, but the text wasn't written in the language of Truth; it was written in the language Alexander grew up speaking.

  He nearly questioned the difference in language, but caught himself, realizing that would reveal the fact that he could see despite the blindfold.

  He turned to Leonard and stuck out his hand, “I’m Alexander. Nice to meet you.”